


Nothing Left To Say

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Series: SladeRobin Week 2020 [7]
Category: DCU
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Aged-Up Character(s), BAMF Dick Grayson, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Robin, Death, Dick Grayson Has PTSD, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Family Issues, Forced Marriage, Gen, Kidnapping, Killing, Murder, No Sex, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Slade Wilson, Red Wedding, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Rape/Non-con, all rape/non-con is threats or attempted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: Day 7:Soulmarks|Meeting the Parents/Family| Captive/Stolen BrideDick hadn’t ever wanted to have to call Slade for help.He especially hadn’t wanted to do it for something like this.For―Ugh.Damian had been kidnapped.Taken away by some rival gang of assassins to the League.Not to be killed―to be married.They’d caught him off-guard, right under Dick’s fucking nose, and―He was livid.He had murder on the brain.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Series: SladeRobin Week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964563
Comments: 10
Kudos: 237
Collections: SladeRobin Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> before we get into the story, the "aged up character(s)" tag mostly just refers to damian being 16 instead of between 10 and 14? but obviously to keep my usual age differences between characters that makes dick roughly 28-30 and slade...... older?
> 
> no romance in this one either, more like a partnership that could lead there at some point
> 
> rated primarily for safety due to violence and mentions/threats of rape/attempted rape

Dick hadn’t ever wanted to have to call Slade for help.

He especially hadn’t wanted to do it for something like this.

For―

Ugh.

Damian had been kidnapped.

Taken away by some rival gang of assassins to the League.

Not to be killed―to be  _ married. _

He had the Pit in his veins, had the Demon’s Head in his veins. He’d make strong children if they could just drug him and force him into a marriage with one of  _ their  _ heirs. And they’d caught him off-guard, right under Dick’s fucking nose, and―

He was livid.

He had murder on the brain.

And he knew Bruce would never help him if he knew that he was going into this fully intent on killing everyone involved.

Thankfully, Bruce was off-planet. Bruce would never know about this until it was too late.

Until Dick had, with or without Slade’s help, brought a red wedding down on the heads of those stupid enough to take his little brother from him and threaten to  _ drug and rape him. _

Everyone had limits, and for Dick it had always been those he loved being hurt.

This was on a new level.

Damian was a big boy and could take care of himself under any other circumstances, but he was  _ sixteen. _ Sixteen, incapacitated, and totally out of his depth if he was even conscious. He knew how to handle kidnappings but not by rival assassin leagues with heirs in mind. He knew how to break free of bindings, but not when the restraints were built with metahumans in mind. He knew how to remain calm in dangerous new situations, and Dick had to hope that training held up during this.

Dick had to hope that this wouldn’t do irreversible damage to his little brother.

And in the meantime, while Dick got ready to go after them, he had to try to pull in some assistance.

Slade was his best bet.

Jason would be easy to convince if not for Dick’s own surely murderous involvement (against all odds, Dick was fairly certain Jason would  _ not _ take well to that tidbit), Tim held tightly to the no-kill rule, and Roy’s involvement would inevitably bring Jason into the fold and potentially Kori as well.

Slade came with none of these issues.

Slade was the best mercenary in the world, knew Dick was willing to and capable of killing someone in cold blood, and hopefully had just enough of a heart left in that hollow chest of his that he’d be willing to help Dick get his brother back. Worst case scenario he dangled Dick owing him a favor over his head, and Dick…

Dick could handle that.

Which was how he found himself sitting on the couch of Slade’s  _ only _ Gotham safehouse, legs crossed, hands folded,  _ waiting. _ He didn’t have much patience left to spare, but he was willing to attempt… Even if every wasted second felt like chewing glass. Even if he knew he only had a couple of weeks to work with―these bastards were traditionalists, if nothing else. They’d plan a decent wedding, make sure the materials were ready. And Damian wouldn’t be touched for anything sexual until after the wedding. Which gave him more than just tonight to work with, and in fact probably gave him a good week or two, but… Yeah. Wasting time and he was about to vibrate out of his skin.

When Slade arrived back to the safehouse around three in the morning, helmet under his arm even as he stepped into the living room, Dick got to see his face flash with surprise, confusion, and then suspicion. He cared very little for all of those reactions. What Slade was feeling was of no consequence unless it could tip the balance toward or away from Slade helping him.

“Slade.” He greeted him, and at any other time he’d have winced at the cold, clipped tone.

Tonight, he didn’t care.

If nothing else, it would let Slade know that he meant business.

“Robin.” Said Slade in return, brows furrowing, eye narrowing, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Being called Robin when  _ his  _ Robin was likely chained and being thrown around made the back of his neck prickle unpleasantly, tying his stomach in knots and igniting an old,  _ cold _ anger somewhere in his chest. He hadn’t been Robin in a long time, and he was almost willing to bet he wasn’t going to be Nightwing by the time this was all said and done. May have to come up with a new moniker, since he wasn’t sure he was coming back from the bloodshed he was about to cause and take part in.

“Let’s get straight to the point,” Dick said, and Slade’s brows jerked upward, “Because I don’t have the time or the patience to fuck around. Robin’s in the hands of the Curators and I’m going to get him back before they drug him and force him to marry one of their heirs for the so-called good of their bloodline.” Slade blinked, pausing as if he was searching for a response, and Dick continued, “While we both know I can slaughter them all on my own, I’d  _ really _ appreciate a little help wiping them off the map while I get my little brother back.”

“... And why ask my help rather than that of, say, Red Hood?”

Dick leveled a flat look at him, and Slade had the decency to look mildly sheepish in response. At least there was that. And at least he was being taken seriously… Sort of.

“I’ll be honest: Jason would be helpful, but he’s not the kind of backup I need on a mission like this.” He flattened his look further, and Slade didn’t respond this time, “I need someone who  _ isn’t _ going to spend the whole thing telling me to reconsider or asking me why I haven’t been doing this with every other idiot who threatens my family.”

“And your  _ father?” _ Slade lifted a single brow this time, “Is he aware of this at all?”

“He’s off-planet.”

“So you’re going behind his back completely―he doesn’t even know his youngest son is in mortal peril.” That the man seemed almost amused just made Dick’s blood boil.

“Don’t patronize me, Slade.”

And thankfully he seemed to have managed to put enough of a warning in his voice that he didn’t need to follow up with a threat of what would happen.

“So you’re enlisting my help to kill… What, the entirety of the Curator bloodline and their lackeys?” The mercenary hummed, “That’s a rather tall order. If even one lives…”

“Unless one is sick enough that they aren’t gathering for the wedding, one  _ won’t.” _ He felt his lip twist in a  _ very _ unflattering way and almost wished that he just had the frame of mind to care how he looked, “I’m killing them all with or without you, even if I have to hunt them down for the rest of my life to get rid of them all. You of all people know I draw the line at hurting my family. You weren’t stupid enough to find out what happens when you threaten to rape one of my brothers.”

There was a brief silence.

“Robin,” Said Slade.

Age old anger went from cold to white hot in an instant. He snapped,  _ “Don’t fucking call me that.” _ And got to watch Slade’s eye widen a little before he continued, “I haven’t been Robin in about  _ twelve years. _ The kid you called Robin has been dead since he got fired and forced to change his name.  _ Now are you going to fucking help me or not?” _

Another silence.

Dick could hear his own heart pounding.

He realized he’d stood, at some point, and his fists were clenched. He was grinding his teeth, clenching his jaw tightly. Glaring― _ scowling, _ really. There was blood rushing in his ears and even with the pounding of his heart you could have heard a pin drop. He didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Slade, and Slade stayed equally as still.

And then, finally.

_ Finally. _

Slade took a breath and said, “Very well. When are we leaving?”

“As soon as I’ve got a decent weapon.” He straightened his back, flexed his fingers. “We’ll need to get as close as we can and figure out when the wedding is. I don’t want any chance of missing anyone.”

“I can handle both issues.” Slade said, “Take your pick of what I’ve got available. I’m sure they’d allow me in as a guest and extra insurance.”

“Fine.” And Dick was concerned that he’d be betrayed, sure, but ultimately it wouldn’t matter even if he was.

Even with Slade on their side, the only way all the Curators were living to see the New Year was if someone took Dick out while he was sleeping at some point before the wedding.

He’d been trained to kill, whether Bruce admitted it or not, and he’d been trained to kill  _ Bruce _ if need be. If he wasn’t holding back for any reason (and fucking believe him when he said he wouldn’t be), Slade’s presence wasn’t going to stop him. He knew where to strike to get Slade out of the way for a few precious moments. He  _ would _ manage.

Now, if it killed him in the end? If he died getting Damian back to safety?

So fucking be it.

For now, he let Slade guide him to his weapon stash and he picked out the instrument he would be using for this red wedding.

* * *

It took two weeks.

Half a day to get there, two to gather information on when the wedding was and who all would be there (the entirety of the Curators’ roster), and the remaining time simply preparing.

Dick had slept more than he had in years…

But he’d also spent more than just a little bit of time ensuring he could use the sword that Slade had loaned him. If he wasn’t trying to kill as many of these bastards as he could as quickly as possible he may have used his escrima sticks, but as it was he needed something deadlier. He didn’t have time to waste beating and shocking them to death. This way he could just cut them down and move on to the next idiot as soon as they hit the ground.

He snuck into the wedding as Slade’s plus one.

He snuck into the wedding as a new and improved Renegade, with the very clear point made to Slade that this was not permanent and he wouldn’t be working for him after this. Slade seemed to understand that, at least, and hadn’t pressed the issue at all. Just went along with it.

And then, when Damian was dragged out, head lolling and movements sluggish, he’d shifted in his seat. Coiled like a snake, ready to spring.

Ready to strike.

Slade shifted minutely next to him.

Damian was left to stand at the altar, and he managed to remain upright but his hands were bound and he looked like he didn’t even know where he was. His eyes were more pupil than anything else. He was so out of it he probably wouldn't even know Dick (or anyone else, for that matter) was there until after he’d sobered up.

It made Dick shudder, memories hitting unbidden.

A hand squeezing his thigh, lips at his neck.

He shuddered again and shook them away, gritting his teeth. Now was not the time. He needed to focus. He needed to be strong for Damian.

He needed to make sure this never happened to his brother again, and that no one got anywhere near as close to raping him as one person had come to raping Dick.

The bride, beautiful little thing, walked out.

Passed his seat.

Stepped up to the altar.

And he sprung.

He vaulted over a pew, sword unsheathed and at the ready before he’d even finished. In through her lower back and out between her breasts before he’d fully settled his foot on the step below her. He kicked her off the blade and felt a satisfaction he couldn’t even be sickened by as he watched her white dress turn red and saw the dirty black bootprint amidst it all and heard her gasp for breath, falling against the pulpit and coughing blood onto the officiant, who did not even live long enough to be disgusted. Dick was already moving and shoving the blade through his throat and severing his spinal cord by then.

He turned, and  _ that _ was when everything erupted into chaos.

He grabbed Damian, furious all over again at how complacent he was, and shoved him under a pew, on his back, while Slade defended him.

Then he was jumping into the fray.

Carving off limbs like it was nobody’s business, slicing through arteries, crushing skulls beneath his boots. It was awful and bloody and he’d never felt more alive. It was like flying with his parents back when he was just his mom’s little Robin, just little Dick of the Flying Graysons. It was like grappling for the first time. It was like sex and drugs and knowing no one would ever know or be able to tell him to stop.

It was horrible, and he would probably be sick about it later.

But in the moment, it was all he’d ever wanted.

It was all he could do.

He snapped an arm like a twig, broke a nose, dislocated a shoulder. He was splattered head to toe in blood. He was thinking of what they would have done to his brother just for a strong heir and it was making him  _ boil _ and he ran another Curator through with the now-dripping red sword.

The one thing he could say for Curators was this: they weren’t cowards.

Not a single one of them ran for the doors, even when it became obvious that he and Slade were winning.

Even when it was only two remaining.

Even when he killed both of them within seconds of each other.

Part of him said, “That’s enough,” but he knew that it wasn’t.

This wasn’t all of them.

The rest were in the kitchens, hurriedly making a feast.

Were they really Curators?

No. Just workers.

But it didn’t matter to him.

He started to head for the door.

But Slade’s hands on his shoulders stopped him.

“Dick,” He said, and his voice was very soft, very gentle, “It’s over. Leave the servants. They had no other choice.”

_ That’s enough, _ he thought, again, and this time he managed to believe it.

He took a breath and straightened his back, shaking himself out. Flexed the fingers on his empty hand, shifted his grip with the other hand. That was enough. The Curators were dead.

And, looking around?

He could tell he’d been the one to kill the majority of them.

So much blood, so many bodies…

He was definitely going to be sick later.

That was enough. The Curators were dead.

…  _ Damian. _

And Damian was still under the pew, and he was covered in blood and still too drugged up to even begin to understand what was happening, but he was  _ there _ and he was  _ safe. _

Dick carefully dragged him out and picked through the locks on the restraints that needed that. Tore away the others. Picked him up even though at sixteen he was almost taller than Dick was and tucked him against his chest. He was okay. He was there and he was safe and the Curators were dead and they weren’t going to rape his drugged little brother in order to produce a strong heir.

None of them were going to.

They were all dead.

All except any children who had already been here, who would be in the kitchen, secreted away from the obviously-wrong wedding. Eating sweets they couldn’t have any other day.

For the best Slade had stopped him―the workers were just trying to survive, and the children did not need to see this sort of bloodshed.

“Take him to the truck,” Slade said, still so soft and gentle, “I’ll deal with the people in the kitchen.”

Slade was barely even blood splattered. It was unfair.

Then again, he  _ was _ much better at this than Dick was. He’d been doing it longer and had more control.

But as the man left the room, Dick found himself listening, carrying Damian outside to the truck. Climbing in with him, still holding him.

He peeled the Renegade mask off and wadded it up. Laid his head against Damian’s and sighed. Shook.

Remembered the feeling of a hand on his thigh, lips against his neck. Fingers under his waistband. The rush of blood in his ears, the pounding headache from trying to keep his eyes open, from trying to focus too hard. The fight as he kicked the would-be rapist off of him and fought through the blur and fog of the drugs to get to the nearest safehouse. The sobbing, horrified panic attack he’d had when he sobered up and realized what had happened. The way he’d never told anyone,  _ anyone, _ about it.

Shook the memory away with a sick feeling in his gut and pressed his face further into poor Damian’s hair.

The other truck door opened.

Closed.

“Doing alright?”

“Mm.” Dick opened his eyes. Looked at Slade. “Physically? Great.”

“And otherwise?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Have you ever been raped?” He asked, instead of answering.

Slade’s hands clenched on the steering wheel. “No.” He said, simply, “Why do you ask?”

Dick didn’t answer right away that time, either. He waited until Slade had started the truck and began to drive down the road.

“... Someone about my age now tried, once, right before I ended up working for you.” He said, still watching Slade as he held his unresponsive brother. “I don’t think he expected a drugged fourteen year old to fight back so hard.”

The steering wheel creaked under Slade’s hands. Dick was sure his knuckles were white, beneath the gloves.

“I suppose that explains your strong opinions on it.” Slade said.

“Mm.” Dick looked out the windshield.

It was silent.

Damian remained totally still in his arms, not speaking, not moving. He was barely breathing. Dick didn’t even have the energy to be livid―he felt drained. He wasn’t sure if that was because of all he’d done today or just because of the flashbacks.

May have been both.

“D’ya think I’m a bad person?” He found himself asking, staring out the windshield but not really  _ seeing _ anything.

“No,” Said Slade, completely calm and not sounding even remotely surprised that he’d asked, “I think you’re protective of those you care about, and willing to do anything for them. I also find that to be an admirable trait.”

“Thanks.” He hummed, “D’ya think he’s gonna think that?”

“I think he will appreciate you setting aside your morals to ensure his safety both at the current moment and in the future, whether he tells you that or not.”

He hummed again.

Since when did Slade bother comforting him, even when he asked, he wondered?

But then he realized that Slade had always been more forthcoming with comfort and praise than Bruce. That he was providing it out loud and when asked  _ now _ wasn’t strange. He’d just watched Dick do something that… Well, went completely against his personal moral code, frankly. He’d watched Dick slaughter a group of forty-ish people almost entirely on his own for the sake of his little brother. Of  _ course _ he would reassure Dick that it wasn’t the wrong thing to do. He knew better than anyone that Dick would need that.

Hell, even when Dick was working for him he’d reassured him he was doing the right thing in the end.

Granted, that had been primarily gaslighting, but it ultimately had the same effect as genuine reassurance.

“... I just want him to be okay.” He admitted, softly, “And to not think I’m a monster.”

“He loves his mother, doesn’t he?” Slade glanced at him, “She’s done far worse. I’m sure he won’t think less of you.”

That was a fair point.

“Thanks.”

* * *

Damian didn’t sober up until they’d arrived back in Slade’s safehouse in Gotham―or at least didn’t sober up enough to speak prior to that point.

Dick was just barely through with settling onto the couch with him still in his arms when Damian shifted, knotting his fingers into the crusty fabric of Dick’s Renegade suit.

“... Grayson…?” He murmured, voice cracked from disuse.

Dick hated that he’d had to leave him drugged for  _ two weeks _ to do this right. He must have been so fucking  _ scared. _

“Right here, little wing.” He promised.

He hadn’t gotten sick from what he did yet―it was coming, he was sure, but he didn’t think it’d hit until well after he knew Damian was alright. Until well after he knew Damian could go back to his life without any serious, life-altering side-effects.

“... Smell copper.” Damian commented, “Why…?”

“Blood.” Dick replied, “I’ll tell you everything when you sober up the rest of the way, alright? Just rest for now.”

It spoke to Damian’s current state that he didn’t argue.

He just blinked slowly, clenched his hand shakily, and didn’t say anything else.

“Dick.” Slade said, after another several minutes, “Go get cleaned up. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Dick didn’t even feel the need to threaten him―he just hummed in acknowledgement and carefully shifted Damian onto the couch by himself before getting up.

He went ahead and had his breakdown while he was washing the blood off, gasping and sobbing and dry-heaving because he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. There wasn’t even any acid. Just sickness and spinning vision and thinking he was awful.

He was awful.

But it was for Damian, and no matter how awful he felt, he knew he’d do it again.

And again.

As many times as he had to.

And he knew he’d do it for Tim, too, and for Jason. For Cass. For Steph, for Barb, for Raven, for Wally, for Roy…

He felt disgusting for violating his moral code to keep Damian safe, but he’d do it over and over. His morals wouldn’t ever stop him.

Ever.

When he was done he finished scrubbing the blood away and wetted a rag with warm water. Returned to the main room.

“Hold still, okay? Gonna get the blood I can off you. Rag’ll be a little warm.”

Damian merely hummed.

And Dick spent a few moments wiping away the blood. He’d already stripped the suit jacket off of him earlier, and rolled the shirt sleeves up, which allowed him to reach his crusty arms.

“Sleep,” Slade ordered, once he’d tossed the rag into a hamper.

Dick didn’t have the energy to argue.

He curled up on the couch with Damian in his arms and he fell asleep.

* * *

Both he and Damian were fully conscious and in the moment almost as soon as they woke, and they woke at roughly the same moment.

Damian stared up at him, uncomprehending and scared for half a second before the look melted away and he promptly burst into tears and buried his face into Dick’s chest. And Dick, for his part, soaked in the fact that he really had done that for Damian. That really had happened.

He rubbed Damian’s back.

“I know,” He said, gently, “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t do something sooner. But I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.’

And, voice raw and weak and choked with tears, Damian said, “I’m just glad you’re here at all.”

He rubbed his back until he was done, and it took… Time.

“You,” Damian finally uttered, “You killed her. And the priest.”

He didn’t sound disbelieving―clearly he’d been stewing on the idea for a while, because he just sounded sort of breathless.

“And the rest of them, except for the ten or fifteen Slade killed.”

“... You killed them.” Damian repeated, “For― For me?”

“Of course.”

Damian sobbed, weakly. “But― But father…”

“Bruce doesn’t matter right now,” Dick ran his fingers through the teen’s hair, “What matters is you, and that you’re safe now.”

“He― He’s going to be furious with you,” He protested, “I don’t―”

“Shh.” He pressed his face into his hair, still running his fingers through his hair, “Don’t worry about Bruce. I’ll handle him. No matter how angry he is.”

“Dick,” Damian murmured, regardless, weak but urgent and concerned.

“It’s not worth it to adhere to a no-killing rule if it means the people who are important to me are going to be in more danger as a result. If I hadn’t killed them we’d have both died, or they’d have come after you again… Or they’d have used me too. Maybe even Tim. Maybe Jason.” He took a breath, fighting off the cold anger in his chest, “If Bruce has a problem, he can take it up directly with me, and I’m not going to sit and let him be ignorant this time.”

Damian sniffed.

But, finally, he nodded carefully.

“Okay,” He murmured, “Okay, if― If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Dick kissed his forehead, “Let’s get you a little more cleaned up, okay? And get some food in you.”

“Okay,” He murmured again, and let Dick help him up.

He leaned against him all the way to the bathroom. Let Dick help him get out of what he was still wearing. And all Dick felt for a moment was relief that Damian didn’t appear to be injured at all. And he seemed fairly steady, so Dick asked if he wanted him to stay, and Damian told him, quietly, that he’d just like if he’d stay in the room. And of course Dick agreed.

He sat on the counter and waited while Damian showered.

“I can grab you some clothes,” He offered, when Damian was out and sitting on the edge of the tub wrapped in a towel.

“... Please?”

So Dick slipped out of the room, snagged an old hoodie of his out of one of the closets and a pair of his leggings, and returned.

That Damian was allowing himself to be vulnerable, to  _ ask _ that Dick do things for him and with him… It was simultaneously good and bad. Good that he was trusting him enough for this. Bad that he felt he needed to.

He got dressed, and plastered himself back up against Dick’s side.

“... Where are we?”

“One of Deathstroke’s safehouses.” He paused, “Speaking of, I might need to leave you with him for a bit, okay? So I can go deal with Bruce. He’s probably back on-planet by now.”

Damian hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. If you trust him…”

“I do. But if he does anything to you…” He didn’t finish the threat, knowing Damian would understand.

Damian nodded again, relaxing only marginally when he sat back down on the couch and wrapped himself in a blanket.

“I’ll be back,” Dick promised, then popped into the kitchen, where Slade currently was, “I’m going to go deal with Bruce. Can you…?”

Slade nodded.

And if Dick actually was a little anxious at the idea of talking to Bruce… Well, he’d deal with it.

* * *

Damian was half asleep when Deathstroke emerged from the kitchen, but his presence made him nearly jerk awake. He― Deathstroke wasn’t Dick. He didn’t trust him like that whether Dick trusted him or not.

If nothing else, however, he did feel safe in that he didn’t feel he was going to be attacked by anyone else, and if Deathstroke attacked him… Dick had killed for him yesterday. Dick would do it again and he didn’t― He didn’t doubt that.

Deathstroke did not speak to him―merely offered him some food.

And he took a breath, accepted the food, and remained curled on the couch until Dick finally returned several hours later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no easy or not horrifying way to say it, so he'll just say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple of people wanted to see a continuation/another fic where Bruce/the rest of the fam finds out, and I tucked the idea away to use when I was having trouble working on my other projects and felt I'd be able to do the idea some justice
> 
> I waffled around on how exactly the rest of the fam would react for..... a while, before coming up with the version you see here! It's a lot more dialogue heavy than I usually like to make things, but Dick just kept talking and I just kept writing it lmao
> 
> hope y'all enjoy

Stepping out into the afternoon air from Slade’s safehouse, leading his motorcycle by the handlebars, Dick could do little else but take a deep breath.

Damian was inside with Slade, and yesterday…

He shook the thought away, slinging a leg over the seat of his bike.

He would be back soon. Slade wouldn’t touch Damian.

If Bruce wasn’t back on the planet yet, that was fine. He would ask Alfred to call him when he was, and maybe mention he and Bruce needed to have a serious talk.

But he had said he’d be gone for a month at most, and Bruce was usually pretty punctual, and it had been three weeks and six days since he left. He would probably be back by now, and if not by now, then by tomorrow. Dick couldn’t afford to not go and talk to him, either ― he’d be wondering where Damian was if he hadn’t seen him by tonight.

So he took another breath in the suffocating heat of the damp afternoon air, blowing it out carefully.

And then he took off.

Down the narrow streets of Gotham, up to Wayne Manor.

Into the garage, in through the connecting door.

Bruce was there almost as soon as he’d stepped into the foyer. He had his mouth half-open, as if about to say something, but he blinked and his mouth closed when he realized who he was looking at.

“Dick,” He said, after a moment, “I thought you might be…”

“How long have you been back?” Dick asked, tiredly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning heavily on his left leg ― turned out the right one was a little sore.

There was no point in actually acknowledging what Bruce had said ― he knew who he thought he might be. Who he was probably hoping he would be.

“... Since about two days ago. Have you―”

“He’s fine.” He cut him off, “Now, at least.”

Bruce went cold in that way that Dick knew meant he did  _ not _ like how that had sounded. Not cold in an angry way. Cold in a worried way. It was amazing he could tell the difference, but he’d had… A long time to start parsing out Bruce’s reactions. And even if he hadn’t been a good father to Dick, or Jason, or Tim, and still wasn’t a good one to Damian, he was certainly  _ trying _ with Damian, and he certainly  _ cared _ for Damian. He was worried for him, just like he got worried for Tim when he got hurt.

He really needed to learn how to express it in any way other than shutting down.

“Where are the others? I don’t want to have to explain this more than once.”

Bruce didn’t seem to like  _ that, _ either, but he said, “Tim and Jason are in the Cave. Tim says he hasn’t seen Damian in―”

“Two weeks.” Dick finished for him, watching his jaw tick, “I know.” He pushed past him with a sigh, “C’mon.”

Bruce followed.

Dick felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck, fear starting to curl in his stomach as he realized he had trapped himself. Down in the cave, with his bike in the garage? There was no way he was getting back out of here without some kind of confrontation, and he didn’t really want to have one with Bruce in front of his brothers but… Well, their perception of him was about to be shattered anyway.

Go big or go home, he guessed.

Tim seemed to perk up on seeing him ― not necessarily excited, but relieved.

It wasn’t unusual for  _ Dick _ to vanish for weeks at a time, what with having to deal with Bludhaven more or less on his own, so Tim likely hadn’t been terribly worried when he hadn’t seen him or been able to contact him.  _ Damian, _ however, even if Tim wasn’t fond of him, was committed to his job. He wouldn’t just vanish without leaving a note, and especially not without asking for backup if it was important. Not nowadays, anyway.

Tim must have been going out of his mind with worry this whole time.

But he did seem to deflate again when he took in Dick’s posture, and whatever look was on Bruce’s face when he entered the cave behind him.

Jason just looked annoyed.

Whether he was fed up with Tim or trying to mask his worry for Damian was debatable.

It could have been both.

“Okay,” Bruce said, once Dick had come to a stop in a spot where he could see all three of the other people in the Cave, “What is this about, Dick?”

Dick sighed, pulling himself up to sit on the table he’d taken up a position in front of him. His leg was killing him. “Before I get into it,” He said, pointedly, then made momentary eye contact with Tim and Jason, “Damian’s okay. I know where he is, and he’ll be back… Soon. Ish.”

Both of them seemed to relax just a little, but Tim’s brow got that furrow that they’d all learned from Bruce ― which Bruce was mirroring, amusingly enough.

“Dick,” Bruce said, not warningly, but with a hint of urgency.

“There’s no easy or not horrifying way to say it, so I’ll be blunt,” He sat forward, bracing his arms on his knees, “Damian was kidnapped by the Curators two weeks ago.” At the gasp from Tim, and the equally furious and horrified looks on Jason and Bruce’s faces, he held up a hand, “It gets worse, so just let me finish.” None of them said anything, but Bruce’s jaw ticked again, so Dick could only sigh once more, “They wanted to use him to create a strong heir, so they arranged a marriage between him and their only daughter. As far as I can tell they kept him drugged up for the last two weeks to keep him complacent while they prepared the wedding.”

“... But you got him back?” Tim asked, more worried than he’d ever admit to being.

“I got him back,” Dick reassured him, “Before any serious damage was done and before the wedding could get much further than them standing at the altar. He sobered up this morning, but he’s gonna need time to recover.”

“The Curators didn’t just let you take him and run,” Jason snapped, “I know the hell they didn’t.”

“They didn’t.” Dick agreed.

Jason seemed to pause at the… Not calm, exactly, or  _ flat, _ but plain response. As did Tim.

“You haven’t told us everything yet.” Bruce guessed, after a moment.

“I haven’t.” He worked his jaw for a moment. “There’s no easy way to say this part either.”

“Did you make a deal with them?” Bruce asked, not necessarily looking angry at the prospect, but not looking  _ happy _ either. “If you just took him… They could take him back again. They’re not going to stop unless you’ve offered them something they can’t refuse.”

“Or unless you killed all of them.” Jason snorted derisively.

Dick said nothing, but turned his gaze specifically to Jason for a moment.

Jason’s face turned from bitter amusement to concern, then to disbelief. But Dick didn’t justify the response just yet, instead turning back to Bruce, who also seemed to have picked up the hint.

“Dick.” He said, so flat and cold and  _ there _ was the angry coldness.

“Bruce.” He replied, matching his tone exactly and watching Tim sort of flinch. “What else could I have done? Honestly. What  _ fucking else could I have done to get him back from them?” _

Tim flinched once more, a little more violently, and Jason’s eyes went almost comically wide. But Bruce just stared him down. He opened his mouth, as if to respond.

Dick didn’t have the energy to be lectured.

“Stop.” He said, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ lecture me right now, Bruce. I killed almost  _ forty people _ yesterday, okay? I did. And I know how the fuck you feel about that, and I don’t  _ care. _ I hate that I did it but you know what?” He didn’t pause long enough to get a reply, because he really didn’t want one, “I would do it again. In a fucking  _ heartbeat. _ Because I’d rather violate your fucking rule and my own fucking moral code every single day for the rest of my life than have to live knowing I let my little brother get  _ raped _ when I could have  _ done something.” _

There was a silence.

Tim looked like he was digesting that. So did Jason.

Bruce’s expression had hardly changed, and Dick didn’t have the energy to try to parse out what he was feeling now. What minute change had taken place to turn it from anger to something else, and what that something else was.

“I know you don’t feel the same way about it, Bruce, and I won’t ask you to.” He said, when he could bare the silence no longer, “But it already happened, and there were no other reasonable options. I had nothing to offer them that they would have wanted more than they wanted that heir, more than they wanted al Ghul blood in their ranks. If I took him they would have tracked him down over and over again and killed everyone in their way until there was no one who could take him back. You  _ know _ that. And he’s your  _ son, _ Bruce, and I  _ know _ you care about him no matter how hard a time the two of you have expressing feelings like that. I know you don’t even want to  _ think _ of him in that position, and I didn’t either.

“And you can cling to your rule all you need to, because I know why you have it and I know you  _ need _ to cling to it, but it’s not worth it to me, Bruce. Letting them live wasn’t an option, or a risk I was willing to take. My morals mean nothing, your rule means nothing, if it prevents me from keeping the people I care about safe. You like to talk about making tough choices ― you think it was easy for me to decide to kill them? You think I didn’t go through every possible course of action, bouncing my head off the walls trying to come up with any other way to get him back? Killing the whole order of them was the only option.

“I don’t need you to understand, or approve, because I’m not going to repent for doing the right thing, even if you disagree about my decision. Damian is safe, he’s recovering, and because they’re all dead and he  _ knows _ I killed them for him, he can go about his life not worrying at every moment that he’s going to be drugged and dragged away again.” He took a deep breath, “Even if I had found a way to get him back without killing them, Bruce, he would never be the same. He would have spent the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, just  _ waiting _ to be drugged and dragged off again. I’d rather he at least have the comfort of knowing they’re dead, and that if I have to do it again I will.”

He let himself fall silent, at last, and the room stayed quiet.

No one said another word for a long,  _ long  _ moment.

Finally, it was Bruce who drew in a slow breath.

Measured, careful.

He’d been thinking about his response.

That was better than Dick had expected to get, but he was still expecting a lecture.

“I don’t approve, but I do understand why you made that decision. I know it… Can’t have been an easy choice. I…” He sighed, “I can wish until my face is blue that you had come up with something else, something non-lethal, but the logic checks out. I wouldn’t have been able to come up with anything else, either. But…” He sighed, again, “You’re sure, Dick? You’re  _ sure _ you killed all of them?”

A better response than he had expected.

“The Curators only had 50 members, total, not counting the servants they had working for them. Seven of those were children, and all seven were under the age of eight. Inside source said they don’t even start training them until they’re ten or older.” He gave Bruce the benefit of pausing and actually taking a moment to count the bodies in his mind ― fifty-two people had met their ends there, and he had recognized them either as Curators or as their allies. The guest list Slade gave him assured there were eleven non-Curators present at the time, and part of him felt bad for killing non-Curators during the event but it wasn’t as if they’d given him a choice. “There were eleven guests who weren’t Curators present. Nine of them died with the rest of them.” Letting Bruce process that as well, he said, “There were fifty-two bodies when I left with Damian, Bruce. They’re all dead, except for the kids.”

“You said eleven guests who weren’t Curators. Not ten.” He pointed out.

“I had help.” He admitted, shrugging, “They dealt with ensuring we could get into the wedding safely and they dealt with talking to the staff afterwards.”

“... You didn’t come home for help.” Bruce cast a brief glance toward Tim.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t want Tim involved in it. He sees enough on a day-to-day basis, he doesn’t need to see what I get like when I have to kill anyone.” He sighed, pushing himself up straight and then leaning back on his hands, “I’m not telling you who helped me, but I’m sure that’s already narrowed it down to a list of people you don’t approve of. Assume what you will, it won’t make a difference in the end whether you’re right or not.”

There was another silence while Bruce seemed to stew on that, and Tim seemed to come to an understanding as he nodded to himself.

Really, he expected that the next person to speak would be Tim. He looked ready to try and say something. Looked like he’d been ruminating on it for a moment already, and was now just trying to get his jaw to move and his vocal cords to respond.

But instead of Tim…

It was Jason.

“You could have asked me.” He said, and he sounded like he was trying very hard to not get mad, “I would have helped you in a heartbeat.”

“I know.” Dick sighed again, “But I needed… Jason, I needed someone who’s seen me like that before. I can’t just… Turn it on and off like you can, I get  _ weird. _ So I needed someone who has experience with what it does to me, and who wouldn’t be staring at me like I’d grown a second head after they saw what I was capable of.”

Jason visibly bit back a retort, but after a moment the stormy look on his face passed, and he nodded. “... Fair enough. I―”

“I know,” Dick gave him a rather weak smile, “You’re worried about him, you wanted to be able to help. I get it, and I don’t blame you if you’re still mad at me for not coming to ask.”

Then, Tim piped up at last. “You’re sure he’s okay? The Demon Brat, I mean.”

A welcome change of subject, if he was honest.

“Physically, he’s in perfect shape other than the drugs he’s still working out of his system.” He said, then, grimacing a little, “It’s gonna take time for him to be okay mentally.”

He didn’t mention that he’d never seen Damian cry before. He didn’t mention that Damian had been clingy before he left. He didn’t mention that he didn’t think Damian would ever get over it, not really.

He didn’t want to hurt them like that.

He could keep those pains to himself.

“... And  _ you’re _ okay?” Tim asked, after another moment.

He fought a wince and said, carefully, “I’m getting there.”

He was still waiting things out, really, and he didn’t know how to say that to them. How to tell them he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be okay again. If he’d ever be able to be Nightwing again, or if he’d even be able to  _ look _ at the Nightwing suit without retching. Without feeling guilty.

… Occupational hazards, he supposed.

He knew he would try, he knew he would fight through it if he had to.

Bludhaven, at least, needed him.

He could fight it to keep his city safe.

“... I might be taking a couple of weeks off to recoup and keep an eye on Damian, though,” He finally admitted, “If you guys need help, don’t hesitate to ask. But I should―”

He started to push off of the table, and Bruce moved.

He got his feet under him. “I should go back to check on Damian. I trust the person I left him with but I’m not gonna relax until I see him.”

“He should be here,” Bruce said, a hint of coldness creeping into his voice.

“If he wants to come here, I’ll bring him here.” He gave him a narrow-eyed look, “And if I do bring him here, and I hear so much as a  _ word _ of you lecturing him on not being more careful…”

He left the threat hanging, and Bruce blanched, coldness washing out of his face instantly. He looked almost insulted, but mostly he seemed like he’d realized something.

“I’m not angry, Dick.” He finally said, a little lower, “Not at him and not at you. You don’t need to worry about protecting him from me.”

The tooth Bruce had knocked out a few years ago begged to differ.

He guessed people could change, though, and he was… Ugh. He was willing to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt. But that didn’t mean he was rescinding the threat.

“Pretty sure that’s for me to decide.” He said, then, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Don’t screw up with him like you did with me.”

Bruce flinched, and Dick took the opportunity to make his escape without so much as backwards glance at his father or brothers.

He tossed as meaningful a goodbye as he could to Alfred, and he was gone.

He wasn’t surprised when he started shaking two minutes into the drive. He wasn’t surprised when he jerked his handlebars away from the direction of Slade’s safehouse, toward Bludhaven instead. He wasn’t surprised when tears clouded his eyes before he even got across the bridge.

He stumbled into his apartment shuddering.

He didn’t want to be here.

But he needed to be alone.

He collapsed onto his dusty couch, because he hadn’t been here in weeks, since before Damian was kidnapped, and he let himself have the... Panic attack or crying fit or whatever it was that he needed to have. He didn’t know how long he cried for.

He just knew that he wasn’t going to be coming back here again for a long while.

He scrubbed his aching eyes.

… Slade was just going to have to get used to him being around.

He packed a bag, took another shower.

Couldn’t look at the Nightwing suit without feeling sick, so he left it for now.

It was evening by the time he stepped back outside. The air had cooled, and though Bludhaven was on average muggier than Gotham he would be lying if he said the air didn’t still feel nice on his overheated face. He didn’t think he should still be feeling so warm in the face, really, but he’d just cried for who knew how long and taken a hot shower, so…

He shook the feeling away, climbing onto his bike ― and it was a miracle, really, that it hadn’t been stolen while he was inside. He knew the kind of neighborhood he lived in. The kind where nobody asked questions even if they happened to see Nightwing disappearing into Dick Grayson’s apartment through the fire escape… But also the kind where if he came back and found his apartment had been robbed he wouldn't be at all surprised.

He lived here on purpose, was the thing.

It was cheap and it was low risk for his secrets.

He took another deep inhale of the muggy, but cool, air, and started his bike.

May as well get back to Slade’s now, and deal with both he and Damian. Figure out what Damian wanted to do, bully Slade into ignoring the fact he would be using the spare room at that safehouse for the foreseeable future.

He arrived back after nightfall, and felt a little bad for just leaving Damian here with a man he’d only ever heard bad things about… But he hadn’t had much choice. He hadn’t been willing, if Bruce reacted badly, to put Damian in the middle of that.

The fact that Bruce hadn’t been angry was… Really, it was almost suspicious. And Dick was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to be alone instead of in front of his siblings, for―

Well.

He idly rubbed at his teeth through his cheek and tried not to think too hard about any of the other things Bruce had done when he got angry with him in the past.

He stepped inside to find Damian still curled up on the couch, and Slade on the other side of the room sorting through what appeared to be a set of files. The former’s eyes were on him in an instant, though the latter didn’t so much as look up from his work. Dick had to admit that he was glad ― Damian he could handle. Slade… Maybe not.

He crossed to the couch, setting his bag quietly next to it before folding himself onto the cushion next to Damian. “Hey, kiddo.”

When he opened an arm to him, Damian curled against his side without hesitation, uttering a soft, “Hey. How did it go?”

“He wasn’t mad, surprisingly,” He tucked himself closer, “Not sure I believe that, though, since Jason and Tim were in the room, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt at least.” He sighed, “Do you want to go home?”

Thankfully, Damian seemed to take a moment to consider it. Then, biting his lip, he uttered, “Not yet. I― I do not want to see the pity on Drake’s face yet.”

“Fair enough,” That  _ that _ was Damian’s proposed hangup wasn’t surprising, and Dick would imagine it was at least partially the truth. Tim  _ would _ be the most open with his worry and he was usually the one to have a more empathetic reflex to someone being hurt than any of the others. “Let me know, okay? I won’t press.”

“... Thank you.”

They remained there, quiet, for a long while before Slade pushed away from the table ― now neat and sorted ― and headed for the kitchen once more. Dick quietly disentangled himself from Damian with a sigh and an uttered, “I’ll be right back,” before following Slade.

“I suppose I’ll be having company here for a while?” Slade asked, arching an eyebrow at him from where he was leaning against the counter.

Dick wanted to laugh,  _ tried _ to laugh, but it came out sort of flat, “You’d be supposing right.”

“I’ll have to arrange for more food, then,” But Slade really just seemed amused, “One of you will have to sleep on the couch until the other spare room has been cleared out.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Because that was no hardship to him at all ― he’d rather Damian have the privacy of a bedroom.

Even if he, personally, was going to be waking up frequently and running to the bathroom to vomit, he’d rather Damian have the security of a door that locked and windows that were booby-trapped to keep out anyone who might try to come in through them. He could handle being exposed and vulnerable in the living room ― there was no way, until he’d processed this a little better, that he was sleeping through so much as someone  _ breathing _ near him, let alone trying to kidnap him or kill him.

“Of course you will.” Slade snorted, “Now,” He pushed away from the counter, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t eaten yet. Let’s get dinner sorted, then we’ll worry about the rest.”

He felt himself flush, but he still said, “Oh― Okay.”

Slade waved him away, back toward the living room, and simply said, “Brainstorm on what to eat. I won’t presume to know either of your tastes.”

So he returned to the living room, and he spent a moment brainstorming food ideas with Damian.

Now he just had to hope he could keep the food down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really do like giving Bruce a chance to do the right thing - I don't think he's a great parent in canon, or even a good parent, but I think maybe he _wants_ to be, and I think he just has a very hard time doing it regardless, so I have a lot of fun working with the idea of it  
> it was especially nice to do in this one, because I like writing Bruces who have learned to do better, but have still been _bad_ in the past, I like writing Dick as someone who expects a lot worse than what he ends up getting, because while he was off doing his thing Bruce has learned how to be better and understands what he did wrong with Dick in the past and is willing to, like, try with him if he's willing to let him
> 
> idk i just really liked how this turned out
> 
> let me know what you guys thought! i do love writing total jerkass bruce but sometimes there's catharsis for me in him being better, too, and i'd love to know your stance on it!
> 
> i might also come back to this universe again later in a new fic, likely focusing either on Slade and Dick's relationship or on Dick's recovery process? dunno, lemme know what you think on that too!


End file.
